Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky (7 page)

“Go on, Son, throw it back!”

The boy scowled at his dad and began kicking the azalea bushes in his search for the errant football. I lowered my window. “You two look good,” I lied.

Tiny approached the car. “Jonah’s coming along. We haven’t spent much time together these past years, so I’m playing catch-up.”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s going,” he said. “The kid’s been living with Judy all these years. She’s not the best role model for a young teen.”

Though I didn’t know Judy personally, I’d heard plenty from B.A. about Tiny’s wacky first wife. “Is Betty Ann ready?”

“Last time I checked she was trying on shoes. I said, ‘Babe, who’s gonna look at your feet at a wake?’”

At that moment, Betty Ann appeared at the side door. In a long, flowered caftan, she looked like a Samoan fortune teller. Like her husband, B.A. is large, the type people call big boned.

She stopped a few feet from my car and said, “Be honest, Rose, do these shoes look too slutty for a wake?”

I studied the open-toed, high-heeled sandals and the lavender toenails. “Absolutely, which is why you should wear them.”

She climbed into the front seat. “Good. I wear sneakers all day at work. My feet have to breathe sometime.”

“Ladies, guys don’t look at feet,” Tiny said.

“Tiny, we’re going to a wake, not a bar. I just want to look appropriate.” She smoothed her dress over her knees.

He leaned into the window and kissed her, a long kiss. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “You look better than appropriate, Babe. You look hot. Now behave yourself tonight.”

I laughed and drove away, glancing at the rear view mirror. Tiny stood watching us while Jonah was still kicking the bushes. “Tiny acts like a newlywed. He’s crazy about you.”

“I’m crazy about him, too. Unfortunately, having Jonah in the house has put a strain on our relationship.”

“How much longer will he be with you?”

“We’ll know more after the results of Judy’s tests are in.”

“She’ll probably be discharged soon. Insurance companies don’t pay for lengthy rehabs anymore.”

“It’s not just drug rehab, it’s her back injury. That’s how she became addicted to pain pills. She ruptured a disc moving a computer at work. They’re saying that after rehab, she might need back surgery.” Betty Ann let out a sigh. “Such is my life.”

“Is Jonah getting… any better?”

“The kid’s a classic manipulator. He’s got Tiny feeling sorry for him. Last night, for instance, we were in bed. Finally, we were alone. As we were getting cozy, there was a strange noise outside the door. It sounded like a sick warthog.

“Tiny got up and opened the door. Guess what? It was Jonah curled up on the floor and blubbering that he was scared, he wanted daddy to come in his room ’til he fell asleep.” She stopped and began to rifle through her oversized pocketbook.

“So? What happened?”

“So Tiny and Jonah went off down the hall, hand in hand. The little weasel turned and gave me a triumphant look. I would have slapped his face, had he been close. I should have flipped him the bird. He’s turning me into a first class bitch.”

“Not you,” I said. “I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it. All day at work I deal with Alzheimer patients. It’s insane. Yesterday, Mrs. Smedlie threw a box of Depends at the nun who comes in to say the rosary. Twenty minutes later someone drove a wheelchair over Mr. Manucci’s catheter tube. Urine was squirting all over the place.

“Things like that I can handle. Yet I’m totally incapable of dealing with a thirteen-year-old. Call me paranoid, but that kid is out to wreck my marriage. He’s evil.”

“Have you talked to Tiny about how you feel?”

“Tiny feels guilty for not playing a bigger role in Jonah’s life. He thinks his son is an innocent victim of Judy’s bad mothering.”

As she talked, Betty Ann continued to grope inside her pocketbook. Finally, I said, “What in the world are you looking for?”

“My nicotine gum. I think I left it at home, and I won’t survive the night without it.”

“B.A., you’re quitting smoking? That’s terrific.”

She turned to me, grim faced. “I’m trying to quit because I can’t smoke in the house anymore. It’s little Jonah. He can’t be exposed to secondhand smoke.”

I patted her hand. “Things will work out. Tiny loves you.”

“I know he does, but sometimes love just isn’t enough.”

Dear Auntie Pearl:

Occasionally, I stay overnight with my mother, who lives in a senior retirement community. One night, when I got up to use the bathroom, I heard strange noises coming from her bedroom. When I checked, I found Mother’s fourteen-year-old cat drinking from the glass that holds her dentures.

The next morning, when I informed Mother, she wasn’t the least bit concerned. Should I contact her doctor about this health hazard?

Flustered in Foxboro

Dear Flustered:

I consulted Dr. Emil Fetlocke, a highly regarded veterinarian. He said your mother’s cat is in no danger from drinking this solution as it is basically a mild, well-diluted cleanser. However, you ought to convince your mother to put out a bowl of fresh water, allowing the cat access throughout the night.

Pleasant dreams!

Auntie Pearl

The Frost Funeral Home is the birthplace of Homer Frost, the town’s founder. Over the years the Georgian mansion has served as headquarters for various organizations, such as the Colonial Dames and the Visiting Nurses. Five years ago when the historic building was declared a fire hazard and thus facing demolition, funeral director Victor Koski stepped in with an offer to purchase.

This turn of events resulted in protests by civic groups who still envisioned the house as a museum to “lure tourists to the downtown,” they postulated in a flurry of letters to the
Gazette
. And while everyone agreed that a museum was an appropriate use for the property, one obstacle stood in the way, money to make it happen.

Finally, when an out-of-town developer (represented by Spencer Farley, no less) submitted a proposal to convert the mansion into high end condos, the town fathers decided that a funeral home might not be such a bad thing after all. Later, in a nod to the civic groups, Mr. Koski restored the building’s original name, with unfortunate results. The Frost Funeral Home became the butt of many jokes, such as, “Drop in for a cool one at Frosty’s.”

The parking lot was full, as well as the spaces lining the street. We finally found a spot two blocks away. Betty Ann hurriedly applied lipstick before getting out. She said, “I feel funny going in there. I’ve got a thing about death.”

“You work in a nursing home. Aren’t you used to it by now?”

“That’s different. When someone dies at Green Pastures, you’re aware it happened, but you never come face to face with it. Two men in black suits show up carrying a collapsible gurney. No one looks at them. No one talks to them. It’s like they’re invisible. Upstairs, they zip the deceased into a body bag, load it on the gurney and then take the service elevator down. Poof, they’re gone.”

“Don’t you ever attend the wakes?”

She shook her head. “The administrator has a policy. If you go to one, you must go to all of them. Otherwise, you’re showing favoritism.”

“That’s a pretty heavy-handed policy,” I said.

“I suppose it is, but no one’s fighting it.”

We stood on the curb across the street from the funeral home. Cars crawled past us, rubbernecks gawking at the long line snaking out the side door and onto the driveway. Eying the crowd, Betty Ann said, “I’ll bet most of them are nothing but curiosity seekers.”

I didn’t mention that we, too, belonged in that category. Although I was representing the newspaper, I would have attended anyway. Furthermore, it was only natural that the wake of a murder victim whose death had sexual overtones would attract sensation seekers. Although Dr. Klinger’s life had been one of respectability and prestige, her death had become tabloid fodder. Consider, for instance, the headline in a recent
Boston Herald,
which read The Corpse in the Freudian Slip.

Finally, we crossed the street and got at the end of the line. Before long we were joined by the Zacks, who stood behind us. Doris wore a popsicle-orange pantsuit and matching lipstick while Harold wore a cardigan sweater.

“I hope I don’t fall to pieces when I see her,” Doris whispered to me.

“You do, and I’m leaving,” Harold said.

“Think the casket will be open?” Betty Ann asked me.

Overhearing the question, Doris piped up. “Absolutely. My friend Loretta does the hair for all the Frost wakes.” She turned to me. “Rose, you remember Loretta. She was lunch monitor at the high school. After a nervous breakdown she went back to school and got her hairdressing license.”

“Uh huh,” I said, having no idea who Doris was talking about.

She continued. “Loretta said the Klinger family wanted the casket closed until they saw what a nice job she did.” She lowered her voice. “She used hairpieces to cover, you know, in the back.”

Harold shook his head. “Nice work if you can get it.”

Instead of being put off, Betty Ann appeared intrigued with Doris’s insider information. She said, “When my sister was in nursing school, she worked nights at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital preparing the deceased for the undertaker. It was better than babysitting, she said.”

Doris nodded approvingly. “Smart girl.”

As the crowd moved forward, a buzz stirred the air. People cast eager glances at the side door through which the line disappeared. Chief Alfano, wearing a dark uniform covered with medals, stood on one side. Mayor Froggett, wearing a dark gray suit, was opposite. His salt-and-pepper toupee was combed in a style similar to
Mad Magazine’s
Alfred E. Neuman.

As we inched closer to the door, I nudged Betty Ann. “Get ready. We’re almost there.” Moments later we reached the three steps leading to the side door. After a nod from Chief Alfano, we ascended and stood poised at the entrance.

Inside, the reception area had been enlarged, its partitions removed to accommodate the crowd. Fifteen feet from the entrance a receiving line of three people stood under a dim chandelier. Doris tugged at the sleeve of my blazer. “Those two at the front are her folks. I don’t know who the bald guy is at the end.”

Mr. Koski, the funeral director, appeared and like a
maitre ‘d
asked, “Two?” With a sweeping motion of his hand he indicated the receiving line. We nodded our thanks and approached.

The first person in the trio, a short, trim man, offered his hand. “I’m Lawrence Klinger. Thank you for coming.” Deep grooves gave his face the appearance of a Tiki god. “This is my wife Veronica.” He passed us off to an elegant woman on his right.

She was taller than her husband, the dark silk dress emphasizing her body’s sharp angles. I shook her cold, limp hand and smiled into empty gray eyes. “I’m Rose McNichols, Mrs. Klinger. I write for the
Granite Cove Gazette.
I’m very sorry for your loss.”

I introduced Betty Ann, who added, “We were very fond of your daughter.” Up until that point she’d shown not a flicker of interest. Now she widened her eyes and asked, “And how did you know Vivian?” Her glance said she suspected we bought our underwear at Goodwill.

“The Women’s Professional League,” I blurted out.

“I see.” She looked off into the distance as though willing us away.

“We’d better be going,” Betty Ann said, nudging me. Unfortunately, to my left was a wall of people, those who’d passed through the receiving line and were reluctant to move on and miss all the fun. They prevented us from advancing. Since we were temporarily stuck, I decided to bite the bullet and speak to Mrs. Klinger. I doubted I’d get another chance.

Leaning toward her, I said, “I wonder if sometime in the future we could talk. I’m doing a story on Dr. Klinger and her impact upon our community.” I reached into my pocket and removed a business card which I pressed into her lifeless hand. It fluttered to the floor. Betty Ann looked at me and shrugged.

The awkward moment did not go unnoticed. The last member of the receiving line, a distinguished-looking man in a natty pinstripe suit, bent his tall frame and said, “I’m Doctor Bingham. I’m with the family. It’s awfully good of you ladies to come out tonight.”

Mrs. Klinger, roused from her reverie, now stared downward and muttered something unintelligible. Dr. Bingham moved to wrap a protective arm around her. “What’s that, Veronica?”

“Why do they glow like that?” she said, her voice unusually loud. We followed her gaze. In the dim chandelier’s light, Betty Ann’s toenails glowed a fluorescent mauve. Seconds passed as we stared, entranced.

“It’s the polish,” Betty Ann explained. “It must glow in the dark.” She glared at me. “Let’s move on, Rose, and give other people a chance to pay their respects.”

“Yes, let’s.” I surveyed the mass with dismay. At that point I was ready to get down on all fours and crawl through the legs of those blocking our escape. As it turned out, Lawrence Klinger was also suffering. He’d gotten stuck with Doris Zack, who was detailing the programs offered by the Granite Cove Elder Services.

Desperate, he spotted Mr. Koski and snapped his fingers. The funeral director, unaccustomed to being snapped at, nonetheless approached. The two men had a brief discussion after which Mr. Koski strode away. Seconds later he returned with Chief Alfano, already rolling up his sleeves. Together the pair herded the crowd into an adjacent room.

Betty Ann and I, swept along with the crowd, found ourselves in the center of the room. People pressed against us on all sides. It was like being at a huge cocktail party, minus the drinks. Betty Ann smoothed the skirt of her dress. “Thank God we got away. That woman is the most arrogant person I’ve ever met.”

“She’s in a state of shock. Imagine how you’d feel if your only child was killed.”

“I don’t have a child,” she said peevishly.

“Don’t be a nitpicker. By the way, who’s the doctor with the British accent?”